


He Saw the Light

by Sauronix



Series: The Lights of Lestallum [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Anal Sex, Barebacking, Canon Disabled Character, Domestic Fluff, Domestic tension, Explicit Sexual Content, Eye Surgery, Financial Issues, Happy Ending, Iggy Gets to See Again, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Organized Crime, Mentions of sex trafficking, Oral Sex, Post-Game, domestic angst, mentions of drug trafficking
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-19
Updated: 2018-02-19
Packaged: 2019-03-21 01:05:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13729848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sauronix/pseuds/Sauronix
Summary: Gladio sighs. “Look, I didn’t want you to find out like this. I was gonna tell you eventually. I had a whole thing planned out—dinner, wine, some roses, the whole nine yards—but I was waiting until I’d made a hundred and forty thousand gil. That would’ve been enough.”Ignis thumbs the roll of bills, frowning. “Enough for what, Gladio?”Next to him, Gladio sucks in a deep breath, then blows it out evenly. “I’ve been in touch with a surgeon in Altissia. An eye surgeon.”“An eye surgeon?” Ignis repeats, dumbfounded.As Ignis tries to keep his fledgling restaurant afloat, Gladio finds a way to restore Ignis's sight.





	He Saw the Light

Four years in, their relationship begins to stagnate.  
  
Given time, that’s what all love affairs do. It’s the way of things. Even Ignis, with his limited wisdom in these matters, knows this to be true. Date nights turn to take-out on the couch. The words _I love you_ , spoken carelessly, lose their reverence. Passionate kisses become pecks on the cheek, and ardent lovemaking fades to familiarity. Now, he can predict the sounds Gladio will make when Ignis touches him. His heart no longer skips a beat when Gladio stands too close.  
  
They’ve gotten comfortable with each other.  
  
That’s why Ignis doesn’t question the distance between them until it’s too late. Gladio spends more and more time away from home these days, and when they are together, he has no interest in anything besides eating, reading, and sleeping. Ignis can’t remember the last time they made love. So often, he’s tried to coax Gladio out of his clothes and between Ignis’s legs, but Gladio pushes him away with a gentle hand on his hip and says, _Tomorrow, Iggy. Promise_.  
  
Tomorrow turns into the next day, and the next day turns into the day after that.  
  
Some nights, Ignis falls asleep on the couch waiting for Gladio to come home, with a radio play murmuring at him from the stereo on the bookshelf and the hum of traffic on Lestallum Main drifting up from the streets. It’s always late when Gladio’s hand on his shoulder wakes him. So late that a sleepy quiet shrouds the city, and a whisper of static has replaced the voices on the radio. There’s a damp chill to the air flowing through the open window.  
  
_C’mon, Iggy, let’s get you to bed_ , Gladio will say, slipping an arm around Ignis. Sometimes, he smells like sour beer and cigarette smoke. Other times, he smells only of sweat. It’s not difficult to work out where he’s been. The Hobgoblin’s Lair, perhaps, or the Tipsy Imp one block over. Still, Ignis lets Gladio guide him down the hallway to their bedroom, where they undress and crawl under the blankets together. Gladio holds him as he falls asleep, his face pressed to Ignis’s shoulder, but Ignis lies awake and listens to Gladio’s soft snoring.  
  
It troubles him that Gladio would rather be anywhere than at home—anywhere than with him.  
  
Perhaps with someone else.  
  
In the mornings, they wake up and get ready for work together. Much as he’d like to, Ignis doesn’t bring it up, not right away. He stands at the stove and cooks their scrambled eggs, listening to the pipes rattle and groan as Gladio turns on the shower. The host on the morning radio reads the news: _Brutus Laelius, right-hand man to organized crime leader Carmine Caputalis, is scheduled to appear for arraignment at the Insomnia High Court this morning. Lestallum police apprehended Laelius three weeks ago after receiving information about his movements from an anonymous source. Laelius was operating in Lestallum to expand Caputalis’s drug trafficking network…_  
  
But he hardly listens. In his head, he goes over all the things he wants to say. Getting confrontational won’t help, nor will levelling accusations, but he has to be firm. Gladio needs to know he isn’t happy. Gladio needs to know things have to change.  
  
But it’s too hard to ask, _Do you still love me?_ Especially when Gladio pads into the kitchen behind him, still warm from his shower, and presses a kiss into his hair as he opens the cabinet to pull down some plates. Over breakfast, he chatters on about the book he’s reading—an urban fantasy series about a werecoeurl hunter in turn of the century Insomnia—and tells Ignis it looks like rain. Before they leave, Ignis grabs the umbrella from the closet, and in the time it takes him to gather his courage, they’re already at Ulwaat. 

  
*

  
Ulwaat is the restaurant that shouldn’t be.  
  
In the years after Noct died, they scarcely had the gil to make ends meet, let alone take out a lease on a commercial space and start their own business. Ignis’s savings saw them through the hardest months, but as the economy recovered and the people of Lucis returned to industry, he found there was little place in the workforce for a man without sight. Cleigne didn’t need chamberlains or battle strategists. It needed builders, farmers, engineers, and doctors—people who could restore the infrastructure that crumbled during the Starscourge, and who could provide essential services. At times, he regretted his decision to stay in Lestallum. He berated himself for refusing Cor’s offer of employment in Insomnia.  
  
When it came to starting a business, money was the least of their worries. Theoretically, he understood the elements of running a restaurant—hiring staff, creating a menu, cooking meals. On a practical level, he was lost. The applicable regulations eluded him, and he hadn’t the first idea how to pass an inspection. There were other questions to consider as well: How to write a business plan? Where to find suppliers? What to do about marketing?  
  
As with most things, Gladio encouraged him to take the first step and figure the rest out later. _C’mon, Iggy, you know it’s the only way to make things happen_ , he’d say. When Ignis asked him to be realistic, Gladio reminded him he’d overcome far steeper odds. And when Ignis pointed to the state of their finances, Gladio went out and found investors.    
  
First Weskham, who, having been forced to shutter Maagho during the Starscourge, had since retired from the restaurant industry. Next, Vyv, who was looking for ventures beyond his resurging media empire. Between their generosity and the funds Ignis, Gladio, and Iris managed to scrape together, Ulwaat was born.  
  
It’s a fifty-seater, open for lunch and supper, with a rotating menu. Ignis and Iris man the kitchen along with Coctura, the former chef at the resort in Galdin Quay, who relocated to Lestallum as a refugee during the long dark. Talcott and a retired hunter named Ada wait tables. Although he’s still employed by the gym around the corner, Gladio pitches in where he can with the grunt work—taking care of repairs, liaising with suppliers, dishwashing, helping Ignis balance the books.  
  
Ulwaat has changed all their lives in different ways. It brought opportunity and stability to their uncertain futures. Battle-scarred and hardened, Iris traded her weapons for an apron—an easy choice after she gave birth to her son, Clarus Gladiolus, a month before Ulwaat opened. It was fortuitous timing, too. Ignis remembers how she came to them, panicking, already three months pregnant and unable to remember the father’s identity. A one-night stand, she said. An ex-hunter she’d picked up at a bar one night.  
  
_How am I supposed to do this alone, Gladdy?_ she asked tearfully.  
  
They wouldn’t let her do it alone, of course. After Gladio was finished lecturing her about the virtues of safe sex, Ignis offered her the job at Ulwaat, even though the restaurant was still just a concept at the time. Here, she has a steady income, and Ignis and Gladio make sure she wants for nothing. Ignis is only too happy to send her home with jars of homemade baby food at the end of every shift, knowing his nephew won’t go hungry.  
  
As for Talcott, he was rudderless after the light returned to Eos. He hardly remembered the days before the darkness; he didn’t know what to do with himself in a world with no daemons to fight. For a time, he worked at Cindy’s garage in Hammerhead, as an apprentice mechanic, but soon grew restless and joined a commercial fishing crew based out of Galdin. They didn’t hear from him for more than a year, until he turned up in Lestallum and Ignis invited him to join Ulwaat. He's been here ever since. It’s given him direction, and taught him how to live a normal life again.  
  
For Ignis, Ulwaat replaces the vocation he lost when Noct died. An irretrievable piece of him went with Noct to the grave—the piece that loved Noct as a parent would a child—but his restaurant gives him purpose, gives him control in a world that took too much even after he had nothing left to give.  
  
It hasn’t been easy. But somehow, they’ve managed to turn a profit. A modest one, but a profit all the same. Ignis’s reputation, both as a chef and a hunter, has helped him succeed where so many others failed.  
  
If only he could say it makes his job easy.  
  
“Bad news, Iggy,” Iris informs him the minute he and Gladio step into the kitchen. “That shipment of bulette flank we were waiting for didn’t come in.”  
  
“Of course it didn’t,” Ignis murmurs, shrugging out of his jacket. He hangs it up in the closet next to the door, swapping it for his apron. “We’ll have to take it off the menu for tonight. Is there anything we can replace it with?”  
  
The walk-in refrigerator opens, and Iris’s heels clank on the metal floor. “Hmm…how about anak steaks? We have…” He hears the scrape of cardboard on metal, then plastic rustling, and Iris sighs. “Six left.”  
  
Ignis frowns, placing a hand on the stainless steel preparation table. “Do we have any daggerquill breasts?”  
  
Another bag rustles. “We’ve got nine.”  
  
Sighing, Ignis rubs his forehead. Keeping the kitchen adequately stocked has been one of his primary challenges these past months. Cooking for four while they were on the road was one thing; anticipating the needs of hundreds is quite another. “Do we have enough birdbeast eggs and chocobeans to get us through the day?”  
  
“Got lots of chocobeans,” Iris confirms. Her heels clank on the freezer floor, and when she speaks again, she’s standing next to him. “But I don’t think our customers will be too happy if all we serve them is omelettes and beanball croquettes.”  
  
“I’ll head over to the market and see if there’s any fresh trevally.” Gladio’s hands come down on his shoulders and squeeze, comforting. “It’s all gonna be okay, Iggy. Quit worrying.”  
  
Ignis smiles and pats his hand, but as soon as Gladio leaves, he resumes his fretting. Without the appropriate ingredients, they can’t makes the dishes on the menu, and without those dishes, they may as well close Ulwaat’s doors. A good reputation and a favourable review in _Lucian Cuisinier Quarterly_ mean nothing if he can’t deliver on his promises—if he can’t serve the very meals people flock to his restaurant to eat.  
  
“We have a bunch of Leiden potatoes, about twenty pounds of Saxham rice, a few boxes of alstrooms…” Iris hums, drumming her fingers on the countertop. “We can make a special menu for tonight. Vegetarian and fish dishes only. Assuming Gladdy comes back with enough trevally.”  
  
Ignis sighs again. “Let’s get started. What time is Coctura scheduled to arrive?”  
  
“In an hour.”  
  
“Very well. When she gets here, we’ll have her put in an order of everything we’re missing.” Ignis reaches out, feeling for the chair he keeps pushed against the wall beside the counter. When he finds it, he sits. “Do you have a pen and paper?”  
  
“Just a sec.” The drawer in the desk behind him opens. Paper rustles, and a pen clicks, and Iris says, “Okay. Now I’m ready.”  
  
“Do we have beets?”  
  
“Um…yep. Got a whole bag of ‘em.”  
  
“Then we’ll have a sweet and spicy beet soup as the appetizer,” Ignis says. He listens as Iris scrawls on the paper, then adds, “For main dishes, we’ll have…a bean curry and an herb and tomato omelette. Did you say there were alstrooms as well?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
“Let’s do mushroom kebabs, and if Gladio has any luck at the market, we’ll also do seared trevally on pasta in a garlic and white wine sauce.”  
  
He lapses into silence again as Iris jots down the dishes. Perhaps today won’t be the disaster he feared after all. He has things under control. The recipes are far from his best, but they’ll do—for tonight, at any rate.  
  
“What about dessert?” Iris asks.  
  
“The ulwaat tarts, of course, as always.” He would never dream of serving anything but the pastry for which his restaurant is named. Pausing, he tilts his head toward her. “Unless we’re out of sweet potatoes?”  
  
“No, no, we got ‘em,” Iris says. “But we’re a bit low on flour. Let me text Gladdy to pick up another bag.”  
  
By the time Coctura arrives, they have something approaching a complete menu on their hands. Iris types it up on the laptop they keep tucked in the desk drawer, safely out of the way of boiling pots and skillets spitting hot oil, then rushes off to the printer to have new sheets made up.  
  
While she’s gone, Coctura helps him prepare the ingredients, chatting away about her new boyfriend as she mashes the sweet potatoes. A guitarist, she says, whose band is leaving for a tour of Lucis and Altissia next week. Ignis only half listens, preoccupied with sniffing every jar in the spice rack until he finds the cardamom. Normally, he’d have Iris help him, but as they’re short-handed for now, everything takes three times as long.  
  
He’s mashing the sweet potatoes for the ulwaat tarts when Gladio barrels through the door smelling like fresh fish.  
   
“Got twenty filets,” Gladio says. There’s a crinkle of paper and a heavy slap as he deposits his cargo on the table. “That’s all they had. Cleaned ‘em right out. Sorry, Iggy.”  
  
“That’s all right. We’ll make do,” Ignis says.  
  
Gladio’s hand comes down on Ignis’s shoulder, thumb moving in soothing strokes over his clavicle, and Ignis can’t help leaning into his touch. He’s always prided himself on his ability to stay calm in stressful situations, but Gladio’s quiet support makes it that much easier.  
  
“I have to get to work,” Gladio says softly, pressing a kiss to the crown of Ignis’s head. “Do you need anything else before I go?”  
  
“No.” Ignis places his hand over Gladio’s where it rests on his shoulder. “Thank you. I’ll set aside a plate for you, so you’ll have something to eat once you’re back.”  
  
“About that, Iggy…” Gladio’s thumb ceases its movements. “I’m working late tonight. I won’t be able to help you close.”  
  
Ignis tamps down on a sudden surge of anger, swallowing hard before he trusts himself to respond. “Again?”  
  
“Yeah. I told you I took on a few new clients, remember?”  
  
“Of course,” Ignis says stiffly. He moves away from Gladio’s touch, patting the tabletop until he finds the fish, wrapped in thick butcher’s paper. “What time can I expect you home?”  
  
For a moment, Gladio says nothing, and only Coctura obliviously singing along with the pop song on the radio fills the silence. Then he murmurs, “I don’t know. Maybe midnight. Maybe later. Depends how long my last client wants to train.”  
  
Ignis bites his tongue to stop himself from asking just what kind of services Gladio is offering this client. That would be unfair. Gladio is one of the most loyal men Ignis has ever known. He would never purposely hurt Ignis. He would never cheat. No matter how far-fetched it seems that any client would ask for a self-defence lesson at midnight, he has to believe Gladio is speaking the truth in this matter. Listening to the contrary voice that whispers to him from the back of his head will only lead to darker thoughts.  
  
As he’s unwrapping the fish, Gladio comes up behind him, one hand sliding up his arm as he kisses Ignis’s temple. “Love you,” he murmurs.  
  
Ignis nods, still too angry to speak. Gladio squeezes his arm once, as if he’s willing Ignis to respond, but when Ignis offers him nothing, he sighs in resignation and lets his hand drop away. There are no further farewells. Ignis listens as his boots cross the tiled floor, toward the exit at the back of the kitchen, and as the door clicks shut behind him. Despite the clatter of pans and Coctura’s off-key warbling from the other end of the kitchen, he feels suddenly alone.  
  
Perhaps he should have said something.  
  
Sighing, he opens one of the packages Gladio left and finds the fish already cleaned and filleted. That, at least, will make his job a little easier. Pushing his anger at Gladio out of his mind, he puts the fish in the fridge and starts to mince garlic for the white wine sauce. The monotony of the work puts him in a trance, and he’s almost let go of his turbulent thoughts when the back door slams open, startling him from his peace.  
  
“Ignis,” Iris says breathlessly, “I just got a call from Theodora. Her sister had a heart attack. She has to go the hospital in Old Lestallum to see her right away. I’m really sorry, but I don’t have anyone else to look after Clarus Gladiolus.”  
  
Of course this would happen today, of all days. Ignis sighs and sets down his knife. For one wild moment, he considers having Iris bring Clarus Gladiolus here, but he rejects that idea as soon as it surfaces. A kitchen is no place for an infant. Iris can’t cook with a baby in her arms, and he would never forgive himself if something happened to his nephew.  
  
They’ll just have to run the place short-staffed tonight.  
  
“I understand,” he says. “Coctura and I will manage well enough here on our own.”  
  
Iris places a hand on his arm and squeezes it. “You sure, Iggy?”  
  
“Of course,” he says. “Family first.”  
  
“Thank you, and I’m _so_ sorry, again.” She kisses his cheek. “I’ll see if I can find someone else to take him this evening so I can help you close out. Oh, and here, the menus are all printed. I’ll leave them in the desk. Coctura or Talcott can help you put them in the folders.”  
  
The desk drawer rolls open then closed again, and Iris offers one more apology before the back door clicks shut behind her. As soon as she’s gone, Ignis lets out a steadying breath and scratches a hand through his hair.  
  
It’s going to be a long night.

  
*

  
It’s after midnight when Ignis returns home, bone-weary. As he enters the apartment, he listens for signs that Gladio is there—music from the radio, perhaps, or the sound of water running in the bathroom—but no such luck. Their home is quiet. Too quiet.  
  
Sighing, he makes his way from the entryway to the living room and eases himself down onto the couch, rubbing his temples. What an evening he’s had. Iris couldn’t find anyone to mind Clarus Gladiolus for her, and the situation at the restaurant swiftly deteriorated after she left. First, Coctura was so preoccupied with preparing the shells for the ulwaat tarts that she forgot to take a batch of trevally off the stove, burning them and rendering four filets unsalvageable. Next, Ada dropped a tray of beet soup on a table of doctors celebrating the launch of their new practice. Then Talcott accidentally knocked a candle over at a window seat and set the curtains on fire.  
  
He can just imagine the review in _Lucian Cuisinier Quarterly_ now: _Deranged staff at Ulwaat nearly burn down restaurant, murder guests_.  
  
None of it is Gladio’s fault, but Ignis can’t help feeling a stab of resentment. Gladio has always been his sounding board, his shoulder to lean on, yet he’s gone so often now that they rarely have time for a proper conversation. Even when they have a spare moment together, something else always gets in the way—an emergency at Ulwaat, the plumbing gone haywire, a visit from Iris and Clarus Gladiolus.  
  
He takes off his shaded glasses, tosses them on the table, and rubs at his eyes. Fatigue pulls at his bones, at his very blood, begging him to lie down and get some rest. But he won’t sleep, not willingly, until Gladio walks through the door. Irrationally, he worries that one night Gladio simply won’t come home. That he’ll leave Ignis sitting on the couch, wondering how it all went so wrong, and why they couldn’t salvage their love.  
  
If he doesn’t sleep, he won’t have to wake up alone.  
  
All the same, he lies back on the couch, resting his head against the arm closest to the window, and pulls his phone out of his pocket. “Check messages,” he commands it.  
  
“No new messages,” the AI tells him.  
  
Sighing again, he tosses it onto the table and laces his fingers behind his head. Foolishly, he thought Gladio might text him an apology between clients—but Gladio has nothing to apologize for. On the contrary, Ignis is the one who should be extending an olive branch. He burns with shame when he thinks about his behaviour in the kitchen, how he shrugged off Gladio’s hand and gave him the cold shoulder.  
  
It’s little wonder Gladio has been so distant lately.  
  
He swallows down the helpless feeling rising in his chest and pats the edge of the coffee table until his hand finds the remote for the stereo. When he clicks it on, voices fill the quiet living room—a late-night radio play. He’s heard this one before. _A Homicide in Hammerhead._ It’s pulpy, but it passes the time, and he covers himself with the knitted throw off the back of the couch as he settles down to listen.  
  
He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he knows it’s morning when he wakes—or, more accurately, when a hand shakes him awake—because he can feel sunlight on his face. For a moment, he fumbles for his glasses before he realizes he isn’t wearing them. Of course. He took them off last night, and he’s still lying on the couch.  
  
“Hey,” Gladio murmurs from above him. “Morning.”  
  
“Gladio,” Ignis says thickly. “Why didn’t you wake me last night?”  
  
“Didn’t get in until four-thirty. Figured it would be best to let you sleep.”  
  
Ignis nods and sits up, his legs tangling in the throw as he swings them off the couch. Dare he ask why Gladio was out so late? Dare he start another argument?  
  
“What time is it?” he asks.  
  
“Quarter after eight,” Gladio says.  
  
The couch next to him dips as Gladio’s weight settles onto it. Ignis can feel the heat of his skin, close but not quite touching him. He stops himself from leaning into it, from resting his head on Gladio’s shoulder and looking for solace in his arms. Something tells him Gladio wouldn’t want that. The distance he keeps between them now is as deliberate as it is palpable.  
  
“How did it go last night?” Gladio asks.  
  
Ignis rubs the sleep out of his eyes, groaning as he relives yesterday. “It was a near disaster. Coctura and I could hardly keep up in the kitchen, and there were several mishaps in the dining room for which I had to apologize _profusely_ …”  
  
“That bad?”  
  
“Yes. Ada spilled beet soup all over a group of general practitioners who just opened a clinic on the west side. They took it in stride, thankfully, but everyone else in the restaurant witnessed it. I can only hope the vultures at _Lucian Cuisinier_ won’t get wind of what happened.”  
  
“Sorry I wasn’t there.”  
  
“It’s all right.” He offers a wan smile. “Your work is important too, Gladio. I…was wrong to be angry with you.”  
  
Instead of taking his hand or putting an arm around his shoulder, as Ignis thought he would, Gladio blows out a breath. “No, I get why you’re pissed. You have every right to be.”  
  
Ignis nods, his stomach knotting up. It isn’t an explanation, nor an apology, and Gladio just sounds exhausted. “Ulwaat is closed today,” he says. “Perhaps we can talk about it. I’ll make us a pot of tea and breakfast, and we’ll—”  
  
“I can’t, Iggy. I have to go to Hammerhead.”  
  
“Again?” Ignis frowns, turning his head slightly in Gladio’s direction. This will be the third time Gladio has gone to Hammerhead in the past six months. “But why?”  
  
“I can’t say.”  
  
“Why not?” This isn’t the first time he’s heard this excuse. He tries so hard to keep his voice from rising in agitation that it comes out strained. “What could possibly be so important in Hammerhead that you have to keep it from me?”  
  
“I need you to trust me.”  
  
Ignis grits his teeth, holding back every unkind word, every accusation, every petty thought he’s wanted to voice for the past few months. He trusts Gladio to help him pay the bills and clean the apartment, but his faith that Gladio will treat his heart with care has waned.  
  
“I’ve tried to have trust in you,” he says. “I’ve tried to be understanding. But you make it so difficult.”  
  
“Iggy—”  
  
“Are you going to sit there and tell me you’re going to Hammerhead for work?”  
  
“Listen to me—”  
  
“That you were with a client until gone four in the morning? I may be blind, Gladio, but I’m no fool.” Gladio puts a hand on his shoulder, but Ignis shrugs it off, grasping the arm of the couch to pull himself to his feet. “Are you unhappy in this relationship, Gladio? What are you still doing here if our home is so offensive to you?”  
  
“Fucking Six, Iggy, I’m here because I want to be,” Gladio says sharply.  
  
“Then why, Gladio?” He can feel his lower lip quivering, so he sucks it between his teeth, not wanting Gladio to see him cry, to see him so weak. “I don’t understand. I’ve tried to give you the benefit of the doubt, but this has been going on for months. If you don’t love me anymore—”  
  
“I _do_ love you—”  
  
The couch creaks behind him, and Ignis turns to face Gladio, to confront him with the one fear he’s never dared speak, even to himself. “Is there someone else?”  
  
“ _Iggy_!” Gladio’s arms gather him close, and despite his frustration, Ignis buries his face in his neck, his hands clutching Gladio’s hair and t-shirt. “Shit, how can you ask me that? You think I fought so hard to get you back just to walk out on you now?”  
  
Ignis breathes in Gladio’s clean, familiar scent—of strawberry shampoo and freshly laundered clothes—and breathes out again, steadying himself. “What else am I to think?”  
  
After all, it wouldn’t be the first time Gladio walked out on him and found someone else to warm his bed.  
  
“I ain’t seeing anyone else,” Gladio growls, his voice rumbling in his chest against Ignis’s ear. “You’re the only one I wanna be with.”  
  
“You aren’t with me,” Ignis murmurs. “You’re always somewhere else.”  
  
“But not with _someone_ else,” Gladio says fervently. He kisses the top of Ignis’s head, one hand rubbing up and down his back, soothing. “I can’t tell you why I’m going—not yet, anyway—but I promise you it has nothing to do with anyone else. So please don’t sit here wondering if I still love you. I do, Iggy, so much.”  
  
Ignis pulls back. “Then don’t go to Hammerhead.”  
  
“I have to.”  
  
Ignis shakes his head, disgusted, and leaves Gladio’s arms, moving instead the few feet to the window. He can’t see what lies beyond it, but the sunlight on his face makes him feel safer somehow, less defeated. “Go on, then. Don’t let me stop you.”  
  
Behind him, Gladio sighs. Ignis half expects him to come closer, to hold him from behind, but his footsteps take him further away, toward the door. “I don’t have time to argue about this, Ignis. I have to go. I’ll be back in a week, but I’ll text you whenever I can. Promise.” After a beat, he adds, “I love you.”  
  
Ignis bites his lip, resting his forehead against the pane of glass as a wave of hurt rolls over him. After being dismissed out of hand, he has half a mind not to answer, but what if it drives a wedge between them for good? What if Gladio really does decide to leave him? So he says, wearily, “And I you. Be safe.”  
  
He listens as Gladio laces up his boots and throws on a jacket, then as the door clicks shut behind him. And as he stands at the window, his sightless eyes looking out, he wishes more than anything that he could watch Gladio go. 

  
*

  
While Gladio is away, Iris invites him over for breakfast before they’re due to open Ulwaat for the day. He sits in her kitchen, his nostrils tantalized by the aroma of rosemary hash browns and garulessa sausages, with the morning news on the television and Clarus Gladiolus wriggling in his lap.  
  
Here, at least, Gladio’s absence hurts a little less. Spending time with the rest of the Amicitia family—his own family now—makes him feel wanted and loved.  
  
“ _We’ve just come from a press conference at the Citadel in Insomnia, where Justice Minister Monica Elshett confirmed that Carmine Caputalis is in police custody_ ,” says the anchor on the news. “ _Caputalis, the notorious head of the Basilisk Fang organized crime syndicate, has eluded capture since the brazen murder of Police Chief Aquitas on Crown Boulevard three years ago. His arrest is a death knell for—_ ”  
  
Iris heaves an exasperated sigh. “I’ve had just about enough of this case. We’ve been hearing about it for _months_.”  
  
The television goes quiet, leaving only the hiss of sausages in the frying pan and Clarus Gladiolus cooing as he pats Ignis’s cheek with a sticky palm. Absently, Ignis bounces his knee, and Clarus Gladiolus giggles, his chubby fingers catching on Ignis’s lower lip. He can just imagine his nephew looking at him with curious golden eyes—the same eyes as his mother and uncle—as his hand explores Ignis’s face.  
  
“You okay, Iggy?” Iris asks as she starts to root through the cutlery drawer, raising a cacophony as knives and forks clatter together. “You’ve been awfully quiet this week. You look like you’re a million miles away.”  
  
“I apologize.” Ignis takes Clarus Gladiolus’s hands and bounces him with a little more verve, and he can’t help smiling when the boy shrieks with glee. “I’ve had a lot on my mind lately.”  
  
“Yeah?” Her footsteps pad across the kitchen and he hears her place a set of cutlery on the table next to him. “Anything you wanna talk about? I’m a good listener.”  
  
“I’m quite all right, but thank you.”  
  
He can almost feel her eyes studying him before she says, “Is it because Gladdy went away?”  
  
When he doesn’t answer, she sighs and pads back across the kitchen. Plates clank together as she takes them down from the cupboard, and metal scrapes on metal as she dishes out their breakfast.  But he smells rather than hears it when she sets his meal down in front of him. It reminds him of the years before they opened Ulwaat, when he made brunch in bed for Gladio on the Sundays neither of them had anywhere urgent to be. Despite everything he’s achieved, and how far he’s come, something inside him aches for those days. Back then, he never doubted Gladio’s love for him.  
  
Iris takes Clarus Gladiolus from his arms to strap him into his high chair. The chair across from him scrapes on the linoleum as she pulls it out, then the wood creaks under her weight. Using the side of his fork, Ignis cuts his sausage into segments and begins to eat, although he can still feel Iris’s gaze on him. He’s only put the conversation off for a few minutes at most. Like her brother, Iris never fails to get the information she wants.  
  
“Are you mad at him?” she asks.  
  
How should he answer that? Iris welcomed him into the family four years ago, but Gladio has been her brother all her life. No matter what he says, Iris will take Gladio’s side. “I don’t know how I feel,” he says, thinking it the safe response.  
  
She snorts. “Cut the crap, Iggy. You always know exactly how you feel.” Clarus Gladiolus whines, and she shushes him gently. “Did you guys fight?”  
  
“We raised our voices, yes.” Ignis pushes his potatoes around the plate with his fork. “He wouldn’t tell me why he went to Hammerhead. Without an explanation, I can only surmise that he…” Ignis swallows and bows his head, his cheeks heating. What is he doing, speculating to Iris that her brother no longer loves him? “I apologize. I don’t want to be a burden on you.”  
  
“You’re not a burden. Now answer the question.”  
  
“I thought I had.”  
  
Iris huffs. “I meant what did you ‘surmise’?”  
  
Despondently, Ignis spears a potato with his fork, though he doesn’t lift it to his mouth. “It doesn’t matter, Iris. It’s something we have to work out between the two of us.”  
  
“Sometimes it helps to talk to a detached third party.”  
  
Ignis raises an eyebrow, his lips tugging into a half-smile. “Is that so?”  
  
“Mmm hmm.”  
  
“I’m not sure you qualify as detached,” Ignis says. He puts a potato in his mouth and chews in silence for a moment, listening to Clarus Gladiolus whine as Iris feeds him. “You are his sister, after all.”  
  
“So? I’m your sister now, too. Besides, I’ve never shied away from kicking Gladdy’s ass when he needs it.” She prods him in the bicep twice. “Now out with it. What did he do this time?”  
  
Ignis sighs. Iris is already aware of Gladio’s comings and goings; after all, this isn’t the first time they’ve shared a meal in her kitchen in Gladio’s absence. But she wants him to bare all of his fears and feelings—to be vulnerable—and as much as he cares for her, that’s a step he still hesitates to take.  
  
So he doesn’t tell her all the things he said to Gladio before he left for Hammerhead. He doesn’t tell her he worries their relationship is over, despite Gladio’s reassurances to the contrary. Instead, he puts down his fork and keeps it matter-of-fact.  
  
“I merely wonder where he goes all the time, and why being there is better than being with me,” he says.  
  
“Oh, Ignis.” Her warm hand covers his own, squeezing reassuringly. “There’s nowhere Gladdy would rather be than with you, I can promise you that.”  
  
Ignis turns his head in her direction. “How do you know? Does he tell you why he goes to Hammerhead? Where he spends all his nights when he says he’s working late?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Then how can you say with such certainty that he would rather be with me?” Ignis asks.  
  
“Because I see the way he looks at you,” Iris says, and he hears the warmth of her smile in her voice. “I watch him watching you all the time when we’re at Ulwaat. Doesn’t matter what you’re doing. It could be the most mundane thing on the planet, but his eyes get all soft and he has this dopey smile on his face. If you could see him, you wouldn’t doubt him, Iggy.”  
  
_If you could see him_.  
  
Everything he knows of Gladio—everything he knows of their relationship—he knows through sound and touch alone. Over the years, he’s learned to interpret meaning by the tone of Gladio’s voice, and in the silences where words are left unsaid. But visual cues are lost to him. He cannot see the light in Gladio’s eyes that Iris speaks of. He cannot see the regret when Gladio says he must work late yet again, if he does indeed regret it at all.  
  
“Then why does he come home at four in the morning and tell me he’s been with a client?” Ignis asks. “I want to believe him. I do, Iris, but put yourself in my shoes for a moment and tell me how you would feel if he told you something so absurd.”  
  
“I’m not saying he’s right to keep secrets from you,” Iris says defensively. She goes silent for a moment, and from the way she taps her finger against the table top, Ignis can tell she’s weighing her words carefully. Gladio does the very same thing. “You know, Iggy, he’s told me you guys are having money problems. Maybe that’s why he’s been working such late hours.”  
  
“We aren’t having money problems.”  
  
“Okay, maybe ‘problems’ is too strong a word, but I know you’ve been tightening the belt so you can pay the rest of us.” She places her hand on his again. “Trust me, I appreciate it, Iggy, but you have to take care of yourself, too.”  
  
Ignis draws his hand away. “We haven’t tightened the belt, Iris, at least not so much that Gladio should be working until all hours of the night to make ends meet. I don’t know what Gladio has been telling you, but between the two of us, we earn enough to pay our bills and have a little left over for savings.”  
  
An awkward silence descends on the kitchen for a moment, until Clarus Gladiolus shrieks, and something plastic clatters on the floor. His breakfast, no doubt splattered across the linoleum now. With a sigh, Iris pushes her chair back, grunting as she bends to pick up his mess, and then she pads over to the sink to run the tap.  
  
“I guess you two need to have a conversation, then,” she says over the hiss of the water.  
  
Ignis takes a sip of his coffee and finds it cold. “So it would seem,” he murmurs.

  
*

  
Two nights later, when Ignis slots the key to their apartment in the door, he hears the muffled sound of music playing on the other side. Gladio must be home. Almost at once, relief and worry go to war within him. Since his conversation with Iris, he’s spent his every waking minute both longing to see Gladio and working himself into knots over what he’s going to say. As it is, he still doesn’t know.  
  
Taking a deep breath, he turns the knob and enters the apartment. Before he’s even closed the door behind him, the volume lowers on the radio and the couch creaks. Gladio’s footsteps cross the floor toward him, deceptively light for such a large man.  
  
“Iggy,” Gladio says, his voice close by, but he doesn’t touch Ignis, doesn’t draw him into his arms. “You’re home.”  
  
“So are you,” Ignis says as he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the hook just inside the door. “When did you get back?”  
  
“A little after noon,” Gladio says. “I thought about dropping by Ulwaat, but didn’t want to bother you at work.” There’s a momentary silence before Gladio’s hand touches his arm, gentle and tentative. “I missed you.”  
  
Ignis allows himself to smile. “I missed you as well. The apartment felt empty without you.”  
  
Gladio presses a kiss to his forehead. “I’ll get the kettle going, if you wanna sit down and take a load off. I picked up some aegir root tea for you on the way home.”  
  
“That sounds wonderful. Thank you, Gladio.”  
  
As Gladio busies himself in the kitchen, Ignis picks his way across the living room to the couch. The window is open, and the murmur of traffic drifts up, almost drowning out the bluegrass guitars that twang on the radio. He sits quietly and listens as Gladio goes through the cupboards, clanking cups together and measuring out the tea. It feels perfectly domestic. Normal. Despite all his misgivings, and despite the difficult conversation they’re about to have, he realizes he’s _content_. It isn’t yet midnight, and for once, the man he loves is home.  
  
The kettle whistles, and a few minutes later, Gladio joins him on the couch. The earthy scent of the tea and the heat of Gladio’s thigh pressed against his own are a comfort after a long day slaving over an industrial stove. Gratefully, Ignis lifts his cup and blows on it before taking a sip.  
  
“How was your week?” Gladio asks.  
  
Ignis licks his lips, savouring the bittersweet flavour of the aegir root. “Uneventful. It’s been busy at Ulwaat, but we’ve had no further incidents. Talcott replaced the curtains he set on fire last week, and we haven’t yet received a negative review in _Lucian Cuisinier Quarterly_. All things told, I’d call it a win.”  
  
Gladio takes his hand, lacing their fingers together. “That’s good news.”  
  
“I’ll say. Iris had me over for breakfast the other day as well.” Ignis laughs, remembering Clarus Gladiolus’s fat little fingers roving over his face. “That boy of hers grows bolder by the day. He’ll be a handful when he’s older.”  
  
“Like a true Amicitia.”  
  
Ignis nods, stroking his thumb over the back of Gladio’s hand, trying to no avail to still the anxiety that roils his stomach. “And you, Gladio? How was your week in Hammerhead?”  
  
“Fine. Got home as soon as I could.”  
  
They lapse into silence. Ignis itches to bring up their last conversation, and what Iris said over breakfast two days ago, but he doesn’t want to break this quiet, companionable feeling between the two of them.  
  
As it happens, Gladio broaches the topic for him.  
  
“Look, Iggy, I did a lot of thinking when I was on the road,” he says, running his palm over Ignis’s knuckles. “About what you said before I left, and what Iris texted me this morning.”  
  
“Iris texted you?” Ignis asks, surprised.  
  
“Yeah. She kicked my ass. Said I was gonna lose you again if I didn’t come clean about where I’ve been.” Ignis opens his mouth to protest, but Gladio lays the pads of his fingers over his lips, hushing him. “I don’t think you’re gonna leave me, Iggy. At least I hope I haven’t fucked up that bad. Look, I’ve wanted to be honest with you, but I didn’t want you to worry about me—”  
  
“Worry?” Ignis echoes, raising his eyebrows. “Have you been doing something dangerous?”  
  
“Yeah. Not hunting daemons dangerous, but I took a few risks.” Ignis starts to respond, to ask him what on Eos for, but Gladio hushes him again. “There’s another reason I didn’t tell you. I’m gonna give you something. Don’t get mad, just hear me out.”  
  
The couch creaks as Gladio leans forward, and then he places something in Ignis’s hand. Ignis examines it with his fingertips, feeling a cylinder of smooth, well-worn paper. It’s a thick roll of bills, secured with a hair elastic.  
   
“Twenty thousand gil,” Gladio says.  
  
“Twenty _thousand_?” It’s enough to cover almost six months of rent, and while they’ve been managing well enough with what they have, this kind of money would have made their lives a little easier since opening Ulwaat.  
  
“I have another hundred thousand where that came from.”  
  
“ _Gladio_.”  
  
“That’s why I’ve been bustin’ my ass. To save it up.”  
  
“For what?”  
  
Gladio sighs. “Look, I didn’t want you to find out like this. I was gonna tell you eventually. I had a whole thing planned out—dinner, wine, some roses, the whole nine yards—but I was waiting until I’d made a hundred and forty thousand gil. That would’ve been enough.”  
  
Ignis thumbs the roll of bills, frowning. “Enough for _what_ , Gladio?”  
  
Next to him, Gladio sucks in a deep breath, then blows it out evenly. “I’ve been in touch with a surgeon in Altissia. An eye surgeon.”  
  
“An eye surgeon?” Ignis repeats, dumbfounded.  
  
“Yeah. He said he’d have to examine you first, but he thinks he can restore at least some of your vision, based on what I told him about your injuries.”  
  
Ignis is too stunned to speak, almost too stunned to process what this means. Gladio has gone and found someone who might restore his sight, who has the skill and expertise to give him back what he lost in Altissia, all those years ago. It hardly feels real. In the weeks after his injury, the doctors did what they could to help him, but there were others with worse wounds, who lay on death’s door, and he couldn’t in good faith divert resources from their care. So he learned to live with his blindness, never once imagining a cure could someday be within his reach.  
  
“Gladio, I—” He swallows, choosing his words carefully. “I appreciate what you’ve done, but why did you think it was necessary? Do you think I’m unhappy with the way I am? Are _you_ unhappy with it?”  
  
“Oh, come on, Iggy, that ain’t fair.” Gladio’s hand takes his, firm yet gentle, his thumb stroking over Ignis’s knuckles. “Doesn’t make a difference to me whether you can see. I love you either way. I just want you to have the choice.”  
  
“You might have told me before you went to all that trouble.”  
  
“No way. You would’ve told me to forget about it.”  
  
He can’t argue with that. Practicality has always trumped comfort, in his mind. There are better things to put their money toward than his eyesight—Ulwaat, their rent, the bills, food and new clothes for Clarus Gladiolus—and he’s lived for so long in darkness that sometimes he forgets it hasn’t always been this way. He resigned himself long ago to this reality. He worked hard to reorder his life around it.  
  
And if he’s ever longed to lay his eyes on Gladio’s face just one more time, well…he weeds that thought before it can take root.  
  
“Where did you get it all?” Ignis asks. “And how? I know you’ve been working overtime at the gym, but you can’t have made this much money in such a short span of time.”  
  
“The gym was part of it,” Gladio admits. “I don’t really know where to start.” He rises and begins to pace, cracking his knuckles, one after the other. “Have you heard about the Basilisk Fang arrests? Brutus Laelius and Carmine Caputalis?”  
  
Dread settles in the pit of Ignis’s stomach. Of course he has. The Basilisk Fang came to prominence three years ago, taking advantage of the delicate political situation in Insomnia to gain a foothold in its criminal underbelly. Under the leadership of Carmine Caputalis, the syndicate engaged in—among its various sordid activities—drug and sex trafficking in Leide and Duscae, eventually branching out to Cleigne six months ago. And despite the best efforts of the Insomnia police, Caputalis and his inner circle, including Laelius, continued to evade capture. Their lackeys never cracked, and the police could never pin anything on them.  
  
Until now.  
  
Ignis rubs his forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “Gladio, you aren’t in debt to the Basilisk Fang, are you?”  
  
“No! Shit, Iggy, you think I’m that much of an idiot?” Without waiting for an answer, Gladio continues to pace, his footsteps tracking back and forth in front of the sofa. “Look, a while back, Brutus Laelius joined my gym. I didn’t have a clue who he was at first. Another trainer took him on, and I didn’t think much about it until Monica contacted me a couple of weeks later.”  
  
“Monica?” Ignis asks.  
  
“Yeah. Caputalis had the police chief in his pocket, so Monica’s people were working to take him down. They got a tip that Caputalis was sending Laelius to Lestallum to expand their network into Cleigne. When she learned he’d joined my gym, she asked me to help them take him down.”  
  
“And you said yes.”  
  
There’s a pause before Gladio says, “Yeah.” He sits next to Ignis again and places a hand on his knee. “I’d been thinking about taking you to Altissia to see someone about your eyes for a while by then, but I didn’t have the money. Monica said they would pay me fifty thousand gil for every useful tip I brought in. They didn’t ask me to do anything dangerous, just keep my eyes and ears open for something they could use to put Laelius away for good. I couldn't turn it down.”  
  
“It’s still dangerous, Gladio,” Ignis protests. “What if the Basilisk Fang find out who you are? They could have you killed.”  
  
“They don’t know who I am, Iggy,” Gladio assures him, squeezing his leg. “I worked directly with Monica, and she never told anyone but Cor that I was their source. Besides, you think I accepted on the spot? I thought long and hard about what would happen if they came after me. Or worse, if they came after you.”  
  
Ignis bites his lip. “Are you certain they can’t trace it back to you?”  
  
“Yeah. I never even talked to Laelius. He doesn’t know my face or my name.”  
  
“Then how did you get the information?”  
  
“I was doing squats at the rack beside Laelius and his friend. They were having a conversation about meeting some guy at the Imp’s Bottom to talk business.”  
  
“The Imp’s Bottom?” Ignis interjects. “That bar the police raided last month?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gladio confirms. “Anyway, I didn’t know if it meant anything, but I called Monica as soon as I left and told her what I’d heard. They surveilled the place for a few weeks before the Lestallum police finally raided it and arrested everyone. Turns out they were running a prostitution ring out of there.”  
  
Ignis is quiet, absorbing it all. It certainly sounds as if Gladio is in the clear, if that was his only involvement, but what if he missed something? What if someone connected to Caputalis puts it all together? “I don’t know, Gladio…” he says uneasily.  
  
Gladio lifts Ignis’s hand to press a kiss to his knuckles. “Iggy, stop worrying. I wasn’t in danger. I’m not in danger, and neither are you. There were a ton of other people at the gym that day, and anyone in their operation could’ve ratted them out. They’ll be pointing the finger at each other forever before they even think of looking at some random guy at the gym.”  
  
“But Caputalis—”  
  
“Is going away for the rest of his life,” Gladio says. “Now that he’s out of the picture, the Basilisk Fang’ll go down like a house of cards. That’s what Monica said, anyway. They didn’t have a lot of time to get a foothold.”  
  
Ignis shakes his head. “Is that why you were gone so often to Hammerhead?”  
  
“Yeah,” Gladio says. “The first time I went, Monica gave me a briefing and made me look at some pictures so I knew who I was dealing with. The second time was to identify the guy Laelius was talking to at the gym.”  
  
“But Laelius was arrested three weeks ago. What were you doing in Hammerhead just now?”  
  
Gladio laughs. “Well, I had to get paid, didn’t I?”  
  
“But that was only fifty thousand gil. What of the other seventy thousand?”  
  
Gladio’s hand squeezes his own again. “It doesn’t matter, Iggy.”  
  
“Tell me.”  
  
Gladio sighs. “Like I said, I made a good chunk from overtime at the gym. I’ve been working a few shifts a week bouncing over at the Hobgoblin’s Lair, too. I didn’t want to tell you about it because you would’ve asked me why the hell I was taking on a second job.”  
  
“That explains why you were gone so late, at the very least.”  
  
“Yeah.” There’s a pause before he adds, “I also sold some stuff I don’t need.”  
  
“Stuff? What stuff?” They don’t have many belongings that are worth anything, besides their furniture and a few boxes full of items Monica salvaged from the ruins of the Amicitia manor several years ago. But Gladio wouldn’t have—surely not—  
  
“My dad’s old trophies, some of my mom’s jewelry,” Gladio says. “Stuff Iris didn’t want and I sure as hell don’t have any use for.”  
  
Ignis groans. “Gladio, why? Those are the only things you have left of your parents.”  
  
“I kept the plaques and my dad’s sword,” Gladio says defensively. “I didn’t get rid of everything. Iris took our mom’s wedding ring, but the rest of it was stuff she’ll never wear. She told me to sell it all.”  
  
“She did?” Ignis thinks back to his conversation with her over breakfast, and how she denied all knowledge of Gladio’s doings while he was away. “Is she aware of what you’ve been up to?”  
  
“No. She would’ve kicked my ass if she knew I was sticking my nose anywhere near Basilisk Fang business,” Gladio says. “We split the cash. She tried to give me a little extra—”  
  
“Because you told her we’ve been having money problems.”  
  
Gladio blows out a breath. “Well, I didn’t say that, not exactly. Just said I needed money for something and I was having a hard time saving up for it. That’s all. I refused her because I wanted her to keep her share for Clarus Gladiolus.”  
  
Ignis shakes his head. “But why would you ever think I’d want to pay for my vision with the memories of your dead?”  
  
“Iggy.”  
  
Ignis rises, too agitated to sit. It would have been easier to swallow had Gladio only been working overtime at the gym. But this… “You put yourself in danger for me. You sold your parents’ belongings for me. It’s too much, Gladio.”  
  
“Ignis, stop.” The couch creaks, and Gladio’s arms go around him from behind, locking him against Gladio’s broad chest. “We kept the stuff that mattered, I promise. But they’re just things. My mom and dad live here—” He places a hand over Ignis’s heart. “—and they always will. A bunch of old trophies and jewelry ain’t gonna keep those memories alive.”  
  
“Gladio—”  
  
“What matters to me is the here and now. I can’t do anything for my mom and dad. They’re long gone, but you’re standing right in front of me. I told you four years ago I’d do everything I can to make you happy, and I damn well plan to do it.”  
  
“I _am_ happy.”  
  
“Happier, then,” Gladio says, and presses a lingering kiss to the back of Ignis’s neck. “Look, Iggy, you don’t have to do anything you don’t wanna do. If you decide not to get your eyes fixed, then we’ll use the money for something else.” Gladio closes Ignis’s hand around the roll of bills he’s still holding. “It’s yours, though. I saved it for you. Just think about it, okay?”  
  
Ignis nods. He can’t shake the sense of guilt he feels, that Gladio has done something he might one day regret, and all for his sake. But what’s done is done. “I…thank you, Gladio. I don’t want to sound ungrateful. But I am happy. I have my restaurant and I have you. You’re all I need.”  
  
“You sure?” Gladio murmurs against his ear.  
  
“Yes, I’m sure.”  
  
“You still wanna be with me?”  
  
“Of course.”  
  
“You didn’t sound so sure before I left for Hammerhead.”  
  
There’s a teasing lilt to Gladio’s voice, but all the same, Ignis takes it to heart. Sighing, he turns in the circle of Gladio’s arms until they’re facing each other. “I’ve missed you,” he admits. “There were nights I thought you’d never come home. That you were tired of living with me.”  
  
“Me, get tired of you? That’ll never happen.”  
  
Ignis fingers the hem of Gladio’s t-shirt, just to keep his hands occupied. “It’s been months since you’ve touched me.”  
  
“Iggy…”  
  
“Even though I know why, it’s been difficult.”  
  
Gladio’s finger catches him under the chin, tilting his face up, and then Gladio is kissing him, slow and deep, his tongue delving into Ignis’s mouth. It’s unlike any kiss he’s received from Gladio in recent memory. Hungrily, Ignis kisses him back, taking handfuls of Gladio’s shirt, telegraphing all the months of longing he’s kept bottled up. When Gladio slides his hands down to cup Ignis’s rear, Ignis nips at his lower lip, breaking the kiss.  
  
“Trust me, I still want you,” Gladio murmurs.  
  
Ignis kisses him again, chaste this time. “Then convince me.”

  
*

  
Gladio lets Ignis push him down onto the mattress and straddle his hips. Compared to the cool sheets, Gladio’s palms are hot when he rests them on Ignis’s thighs. As much as he wants to, Ignis doesn’t kiss him yet. He shifts until his rear end is sitting on the beginnings of Gladio’s arousal and lets his fingertips trail over the familiar body beneath him. First, he finds the seam of scar tissue on Gladio’s cheek, following it down until he can scratch his fingers through the coarse bristles of his beard. At that, Gladio lets out a little sound of encouragement, so he continues, stroking the soft skin of his throat, then the ridge of his collarbone.  
  
“You gonna tease me like that all night?” Gladio asks, slowly running his hands up and down Ignis’s thighs.  
  
“I haven’t decided yet. Is there something else you’d rather do with your time?” Ignis says lightly. “Meet yet another client at the gym, perhaps?”  
  
“Nah.” Gladio takes the hand resting on his collarbone and brings it to his mouth, pressing a kiss to the knuckles. The paired softness of his lips and roughness of his beard sends a shudder of desire through Ignis. “I’ve made my money. I’m yours now for as many nights as you’ll have me.”  
  
Ignis just smiles and continues his exploration, trailing his palms over the cotton of a t-shirt stretched taut by firm muscle. He thumbs Gladio’s nipple through the fabric, eliciting a grunt, then teases it to full stiffness, until it’s a hard bead under the pad of his thumb. Gladio isn’t particularly particularly sensitive here, but Ignis does it for his own benefit, to chart every ridge and pebble and valley on the landscape of Gladio’s body. Time hasn’t diminished the power in Gladio’s physique. Although Ignis cannot see him, he knows, by touch, that Gladio must look much the same as he did when he first took Ignis into his arms all those years ago.  
  
Playfully, he bends to graze his teeth over the nipple through the cotton, chuckling when Gladio’s erection twitches underneath him. He has to stop himself from rolling his hips and grinding down on it.  
  
Instead, he slides his hands under the hem of Gladio’s t-shirt, trailing his fingertips up Gladio’s abdomen, following the grooves in the muscle. There’s no hair here, only skin as soft as silk. Gladio lasered it all off long ago, before they ever left Insomnia, the better to show off the build of his body and his tattoo. Ignis pushes up further until his palms cup the hard curves of Gladio’s pectorals, and then he leans over to kiss Gladio’s mouth.  
  
As always, Gladio’s lips part for him immediately, making way for the meeting of their tongues. His breath tastes like cinnamon toothpaste with a dash of Leiden pepper, spicy and warm. Ignis savours it as Gladio kisses him with a lazy tenderness, one hand cupping the back of his head, his tongue teasing Ignis’s own. That’s one thing Ignis has always loved about Gladio. No matter his dominating physique and brute strength, he is a sensitive lover—gentle by default, but vigorous when it’s asked of him. Ignis signals his appreciation by brushing his thumbs over Gladio’s nipples again, laughing into Gladio’s mouth when his hips buck up under him.  
  
“You keep doing that,” Gladio says.  
  
“Only because you react to it.”  
  
“Troublemaker.”  
  
Ignis trails kisses across Gladio’s jaw, breathing in the cedar scent of his beard oil. “I love you,” he murmurs against the shell of his ear.  
  
A hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, turning his head until they’re kissing again, Gladio’s mouth moving hungrily over his own. Gladio’s other hand clutches his rear end, pulling their bodies flush together. Now he can feel the ridge of Gladio’s erection, pressing hard into his thigh. Ignis grinds against it, moaning as Gladio’s tongue parts his lips, coaxing his way into Ignis’s mouth. Ignis squeezes the pectoral in his hand before he starts to trail his fingers downward, feeling Gladio’s muscles twitch along their path. He pauses when he reaches the band of Gladio’s sweatpants.  
  
“Don’t stop now,” Gladio murmurs, brushing their noses together.  
  
Slowly, Ignis slides his hand under the band and curls it around Gladio’s shaft, finding it already hot and stiff. He gives it a stroke, rolling the ball of his thumb over the slick head, and under him, Gladio lets out a shaky breath against his lips—precisely the kind of reaction Ignis craves from him. Encouraged, he does it again, slowly, squeezing just under the head, and precome oozes onto his hand. Using it to lubricate his palm, Ignis begins to stroke him at an easy pace, drinking down all the little sounds Gladio makes as they kiss again. The wet heat of Gladio’s mouth, and the erection sliding in and out of his fist, and the masculine blend of sweat and lemongrass soap that clings to Gladio’s skin all collude to make him warm with desire.    
  
“Get your pants down,” Ignis says breathlessly.  
  
As Gladio lifts his hips to obey, Ignis pushes his shirt up his torso and bends to kiss his chest. He grazes his lips over the bead of Gladio’s nipple, then works his way downward, his tongue tasting the silken heat of Gladio’s skin, tracing the scars he earned when the world was dark. All the while, his hand works Gladio’s shaft, until at last he trails his nose through soft hair and takes Gladio into his mouth.  
  
Gladio lets out a deep groan, his hips jerking. A hand comes to rest on the back of Ignis’s head, but it neither demands nor encourages. It’s there to keep them touching everywhere they can. Closing his eye, Ignis rubs his lips over the head of Gladio’s arousal before taking him deeper, savouring the light, salty taste of his precome. The musky smell between Gladio’s legs is intoxicating, too. They fall into a rhythm, Ignis sliding up and down Gladio’s shaft, his tongue swirling around the head on every second pass, as Gladio’s thumb strokes his hair.  
  
“Iggy—hold on—”  
  
Ignis hollows his cheeks as he pulls off, drawing a stuttered breath out of Gladio. The drawer of the nightstand rolls open, and Ignis hears Gladio fishing through its contents. He doesn’t need to see to know what Gladio is looking for. A moment later, Gladio places a tube of lubricant into his hand.  
  
“Can you…?” Gladio says.  
  
Ignis nods, skimming a palm up Gladio’s muscular, downy thigh. “Of course.”  
  
Gladio grunts as Ignis works a slicked-up finger inside him, his mouth descending again to engulf Gladio’s shaft. Slowly, he bobs his head, moving his finger in and out to open him up. On either side of him, he feels Gladio’s thighs trembling, one leg bent to give him access, the other falling open on the sheets. He can just imagine how Gladio must look right now—spread out for him on the bed, his face and throat flushed, his shirt rucked up around his chest.  
  
Ignis pulls back to lave the head with his tongue and slips a second finger inside Gladio, his own arousal aching with need when Gladio lets out a shaky breath. There’s no overwhelming urge to tear each other’s clothes off and race toward orgasm—not the way it was in the early days of their relationship, at any rate. As much as Ignis wants to sink himself into the heat of Gladio’s body and chase pleasure in his arms, listening to the sounds Gladio makes is just as good. He can wait a little longer.  
  
Gladio runs a hand through his hair, urging Ignis upright. “I wanna see you.”  
  
Ignis curls his fingers inside Gladio, and smiles when Gladio groans and clenches around him, his hips lifting off the bed. “Can’t you already?” he teases.  
  
“You know what I mean. Take your clothes off.”  
  
Still smiling, Ignis withdraws his fingers, moving them instead to the buttons of his shirt. The mattress under him shifts, and suddenly hands are fumbling with the buckle of his belt, slipping the tongue free and tugging down the zipper of his trousers. Ignis shrugs his shirt off and lets it drop to the floor, just as Gladio pulls his pants and underwear down to his knees. A hand closes around his erection and gives it a firm, smooth stroke from root to tip. Ignis makes a soft sound at the unexpected stimulation.  
  
“Been a long time,” Gladio says.  
  
Reaching out, Ignis places a hand on Gladio’s shoulder to steady himself, squeezing the thick muscle under his palm. “I’m aware.”  
  
“Too long.”  
  
“Need I remind you how many times I tried to remedy the situation?”  
  
“Smartass.”  
  
Gladio places a palm on the small of his back and urges him closer. Ignis tilts his head forward until their mouths meet again, his breath sounding harsh in his own ears between kisses. Gladio strokes him with a firm, lazy grip, the tip of his tongue teasing Ignis’s own. Already, he can feel his orgasm building, a delicious heat coiling tight between his legs. After all this time together, Gladio can bring him to the brink with startling efficiency. He knows exactly how Ignis likes to be touched.  
  
“Gladio, you mustn’t,” he starts to say.  
  
“I know, I know.” Gladio’s touch leaves him. There’s a pop as he opens the cap of the lubricant, then a squelching sound, before Gladio takes him in hand again, his palm now slippery and wet. He gives Ignis a few strokes before releasing him, the bed creaking as he finally lies back against the pillows. “Come here,” he murmurs.  
  
Ignis runs a palm up Gladio’s thigh, then over the jut of his hip, crawling closer to kneel between his legs. It would be faster if Gladio guided his way, but he suspects that Gladio likes being touched like this, feather-light and questing. Or perhaps he wants Ignis to retain his pride. Whatever the case, he obediently bends his legs back, letting out a sigh, when Ignis lines himself up and enters Gladio in one smooth thrust.    
  
Under him, Gladio groans, and Ignis gives him a moment to adjust before he sinks in the rest of the way. The friction of Gladio’s body clenching around him is something he’ll never tire of. While Gladio is a vigorous lover, Ignis prefers it like this, unhurried and languid, so he can feel Gladio’s heat swallowing every last inch of him, over and over. Biting his lip, he pulls out halfway and rocks in again, all the way to the root, listening to Gladio’s uneven breathing and feeling him tremble everywhere they’re joined.  
  
Ignis makes love to him slowly, one hand grasping the leg Gladio has hooked over his shoulder, the other braced on the mattress next to Gladio’s head. With every thrust, Gladio makes a wordless little sound, and Ignis drinks each of them in greedily. This is all he has of his lover. This, and the smell of his sex, the taste of his precome, the warmth of his skin. It’s good, but at the same time, it isn’t enough.  
  
He wishes he could see it all for himself—Gladio’s features slack with bliss, cheeks reddened with arousal, eyes soft with affection. He wants to know how Gladio looks when Ignis is inside him, to see the desire he feels mirrored back at him.  
  
A hand slides up his sweaty chest and around the back of his neck, pulling him down for an open-mouthed kiss. Now Ignis can feel Gladio’s hand between them, urgently stroking his own erection. Ignis shifts his weight so he’s on his elbow, kissing Gladio in return, his hips moving a little faster, a little harder. All he can smell is Gladio’s citrusy aftershave and strawberry shampoo, and under them, the musk of his sweat.  
  
Gladio makes a harsh, choked sound into Ignis’s mouth as he comes. His body bucks off the bed, muscles clenching around Ignis inside of him, and warm fluid pulses onto Ignis’s chest. He’s almost there himself, thrusting desperately, burying his face in Gladio’s neck when strong arms go around him and hold him close. One of his hands comes up to grasp Gladio’s tricep, squeezing the muscle. He lets go like that, muffling his own cry against Gladio’s throat, stuttering out a last few, deep thrusts in the aftershocks of his orgasm.  
  
They lie together for a few minutes, tangled up and panting, their skin sticky with sweat everywhere they touch. Ignis closes his eye, listening to the slowing thunder of Gladio’s heartbeat. It’s as if all the tension of the past few months—of getting Ulwaat off the ground, and of Gladio’s inexplicable absences—has been wrung out of him.  
  
Gladio plants a kiss on Ignis’s head. “I needed that. Thank you,” he murmurs.  
  
“Mmm,” Ignis concurs.  
  
Gladio’s hand on his hip urges him to slip out and lie on the bed next to him. As his own heartbeat slows to its regular pace, he listens to Gladio pad into the bathroom across the hall and run the water, no doubt cleaning himself up. Ignis could use a bath himself, but for now, he’s too sated and boneless to care about the sweat and semen drying on his skin. When Gladio returns, Ignis is already half asleep, and Gladio cuddles up against his back as he pulls the sheet over them both.  
  
“You promise you’ll think about it?” Gladio asks, slipping an arm around Ignis’s waist.  
  
Ignis nods, lacing his fingers with Gladio’s where they rest on his belly. “Give me a few days to mull it over, and then we’ll talk about it. How does that sound?”  
  
Gladio kisses his shoulder. “It’s a deal.”

  
*

  
They walk hand in hand to Lucia’s Bistro on Lestallum Main.  
  
Gladio doesn’t speak. Neither does Ignis. He’s too lost in thought, wondering how this conversation will go. He’s had a few days to think about what Gladio said. More than once, he’s taken out the roll of bills hidden away in his underwear drawer and held them, his mind racing with possibilities. How many times has he dreamt of seeing again—of looking at the faces of those he loves, of setting his eyes on the restaurant he and Gladio built? Too many times to count.  
  
And yet part of him hesitates. It’s been fourteen years since he last saw Gladio and Iris. The images of them that live in his mind—of a strong, youthful Shield, and his spirited, kind-hearted sister—are outdated. If he sees them now, as they are, will he still know them? Or will it shatter the fragile personas he’s built of them in his head? To see again would mean grappling with the reality that the world has moved on without him. It would mean leaping into the future, like a time traveller, and finding that everything is familiar, yet irrevocably, instantly changed.  
  
Including himself.  
  
What if he looks in the mirror and sees something monstrous? What if he meets the eye of a stranger on the street and sees barely-contained disgust at the thing he’s become?  
  
Could he live with that?  
  
When they arrive at Lucia’s, Gladio pulls out a chair so Ignis can sit. They order the usual—pan-seared bulette and baked trevally—and make small talk over wine until their meals are served. It’s only after Ignis takes his first bite of juicy fish that Gladio brings up Altissia.  
  
“So. Have you thought about it?” he asks.  
  
Ignis swallows and pats at the corner of his mouth with a napkin before he responds. “I have.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“I’m…undecided,” Ignis admits. “It’s a tempting offer, and one I would have seized without question ten years ago.”  
  
“But?” Gladio prompts.  
  
But he’s afraid of what he’ll lose. If he could see again, would the sound of Gladio’s voice mean as much? Would the mere scent of his skin, or the taste of his lips, put a shiver of anticipation down his spine? Would Gladio’s hand on his hip, and the heat of his body at his back, be the same anchor to the world that it is now?  
  
“I’ve been blind for fourteen years,” Ignis says. “I’ve learned to live like this, reordered everything in my life to accommodate it. I’m not unhappy.”  
  
Gladio makes a noncommittal sound. “Would you be more or less happy if we got your eyes fixed?”  
  
“I don’t know. I never thought I’d be in a position to make a decision like this.”  
  
“Well, talk to me.” Gladio’s hand covers his on the table top. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”  
  
Ignis places his other hand over Gladio’s, hardly able to make sense of all the thoughts in his head, much less articulate them. He’s torn between wanting and fear—between the world he knows, and the uncharted future. “Life is more difficult without my vision. There’s no arguing that. There are times I’ve wanted to reach for something in the kitchen without taking five minutes to find it first, and I’ve lamented that I won’t be able to watch Clarus Gladiolus grow up.”  
  
“But?”  
  
“But fixing my vision won’t solve every problem, Gladio. In fact, it could create others.”  
  
There’s a pause, and he hears Gladio swallow, then set his glass down with a clink. “What do you mean?”  
  
“As much as I wish I could look at your face, I’m afraid. It’s easy to pretend I’m normal when I can’t see what I look like, or how others look at me.” Grimacing, he touches his scar. Although he cannot see it, the smooth swath of skin marring his eye socket and cheekbone tells him enough about the state of his appearance. “It’s easy to pretend the kings of old didn’t burn up my eyes. I don’t want to look in the mirror and wonder how you could love a face like mine.”  
  
“Iggy…”  
  
“Part of me is tempted to turn down this opportunity, but what if I regret it? What if we spend this money on something else, and I later wish I’d taken a chance?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know what to do, Gladio.”  
  
Gladio’s hand squeezes his own, firm and reassuring. “You’re not alone. I’m nervous about this, too, Iggy. What if you don’t like what you see? I ain’t twenty-three anymore.”  
  
Ignis can’t imagine looking at Gladio and not wanting him. His memories of Gladio’s face are faded, indistinct, like looking at a reflection in rippling water, but he hasn’t forgotten that he’s always thought Gladio beautiful. Those smouldering eyes, and those full, kissable lips, always curved into a good-natured smile—they can’t have changed.  
  
“You may be older, but based on touch alone, I know you look the same,” he says. “You aren’t scarred as I am. If I go through with this, and if it’s successful, I’ll find you still the man I fell in love with.”  
  
“Yeah. I've got a few more lines, but I'm still me.” He guides Ignis's hand up to touch his cheek, to let him trace the raised line of tissue there. “You've seen all my scars anyway. You're not the only one who wears all those battles on your face.”  
  
“Yours aren’t as severe as mine.”  
  
“Maybe not. But the face you have now is the one I fell in love with, Iggy. It’s beautiful to me.”  
  
Ignis nods, his chest aching with gratitude. He’s more or less made up his mind already. He just needed that last reassurance. As their waitress comes by to clear away the dishes, he thinks of what Iris said over breakfast last week, when she spoke of Gladio’s affection for him: _If you could see him_.  
  
Life would be easier with his sight, certainly, but he won’t go under the knife for that reason alone. He’ll go because he wants to look at Gladio, and see Gladio looking at him in return. He’ll go so that someday, when their eyes meet from across a crowded room, or even in the quiet of their apartment, there will be no need for words. Their love for one another will be plain enough in the look they share.  
  
“Then I accept,” Ignis says, squeezing Gladio’s hand on the table top. “I’ll go with you to Altissia.”

**Author's Note:**

> OH MY GOD.
> 
> This fic turned into a much larger beast than I was expecting. I thought I could tell the whole story in one go, but my brain had other plans, so I've split this into two. My struggle with this was even mightier than my struggle with Sunrise Over Insomnia, but it is DONE (well, halfway...but part two should be easier).
> 
> I want to give a major shout-out to my Gladnis Gang for getting me through this, but a special thanks to [AtropaAzraelle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Polyoxyethylene/pseuds/AtropaAzraelle) for reading this behemoth not once, but twice, to help me iron out all the wrinkles. You make my work better, friend. <3
> 
> Thank you to everyone who reads and comments and/or kudos. The Lights of Lestallum truly is my baby, and I am beyond thrilled to know so many people are invested in this journey, too. <3
> 
>  
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr!](https://sauronix.tumblr.com/)


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